Forty-Fifth Paradox Writing

Your voice changes as the chords get wet,

like milk to sour cream.

The volume turns up on your inner stereo,

as if every word is worth blurting out.

Your words flip like your moods,

like the second hand on a broken clock

You are heavier than lead in the paperweight you ignore.

Note: All words enscribed therein I heard during a fireworks show in Mt. Angel, Oregon.

“INCOMING!”

“Where’s all the spermy ones?”

“I love the spermy ones!”

“It’s not over til the 5th.”

“It just hit my eye!”

“One hit my cheek. Ew.”

“Don’t open your mouth.”

Susan Wheeler died on the 21st of June. The warm breeze gave her away to the first passerby, a seventeen year-old man (or a boy, if one talked to his mother) named Brad Pinkerton. He passed her body, not yet cooled (as if anything could cool on the sidewalks of Pasadena), and he was reported saying “She smelled like last weeks garbage.”

The autopsy report confirmed that the body was only a few hours old.  Both parents confirmed that the nineteen year old had gone missing earlier that day, just after lunch, when the sun cooked eggs on the concrete. Later they identified Wheeler’s dark tresses and the mole on her left cheek. Her parents couldn’t recognize much else.

Police investigated the case, calling the case a homicide. Five years later and no murderer had been found. Every third Friday a twenty-four year old woman visits the lawn, though the police have long since removed the yellow tape. She runs her hand along the blazing concrete and smirks, before she walks off, the sun catching the wave in her dark curls.

I wondered where home was for them.

Did the tattoos come off when the sun came up?

Did they draw them on with body markers,

and wash them off with soap?

Did they live at home with mother,

or under the bridges like trolls?

Like the rest of us

they slipped and fell on their words,

and picked themselves back up again.

I could see the quaking in their eyes

that shone through

the fishnets,

the torn clothes,

the tattoos,

and the piercings.

I recognized the cry

in their voices as my own.

Maggie entered the store first, heading to the front counter. She glanced up at the town’s only television screen, watching the woman walk across the stage in sparkling champagne dress. In all honesty, she thought the dress absolutely hideous, but she still wanted one like it. No man, even Pete Marks himself, could ignore her then. It would still be a minute or two until the lady on television started to pull numbered balls out of the spinning machine, but Maggie could wait.

“Has he come by yet?” Maggie asked Bill, who manned the counter.

He leaned on the counter, making a tally of recent sales on a yellow legal pad. “Oh, him? Not yet. He will probably be here soon, to see the lottery numbers same as you.”

Maggie leaned against the counter, peering over the slate-colored register to steal a glance at the legal pad. “I don’t see the point; no one ‘round here has ever won anything.”

Bill pointed a finger, to the ceiling, or to Heaven, Maggie couldn’t be sure. “Not true. Your paps won three dollars in a scratch the day you were born. He always—“

“Called it his lucky day, I know.” She sighed bored, letting her eyes pace from the television screen to the door. “I mean, no one has won the jackpot in this town.”

The store owner shrugged, stretching the shoulders of his green apron slightly. “Just means we’re that much more likely this time, eh? Between you and Pete, we could buy this town, and lunch!”

“Like I’d share anything with him.” She wanted to.

Ding! Pete slipped in past the glass door, with his hands in his pockets. He glanced at Maggie’s eyes before glancing at the screen. “Did they start yet?” Joining the others, he leaned with his chin in his hand as he braced his elbow on the counter.

“Nice to see you too.” Maggie frowned.

“Shh.”

The glittering woman pulled out the first ball of six, gave it a passing glance, and then read the number for her audience. “23.”

Maggie searched her pockets, trying to locate her ticket.

“14!” The lady squealed.

Both pockets in her jacket turned up empty. Maggie tried her jeans pockets. Still nothing.

“5!”

“Missing something?” Bill asked politely.

“Yeah, my ticket.”

“84!”

“Crap.”

“Is this it?” Pete stood up from the floor, where he had knelt to pick up a dropped, pink slip of paper.

“20!”

“I think so.” She leaned toward him to see if she recognized the numbers.

Pete’s mouth hung open, rounder than the zero in the last number. He didn’t hand over the ticket. Instead his head jerked toward the screen, eyes getting wider as he read each number in the sequence.

“Pete!”

“Be quiet for once.” He muttered, holding the slip of paper tightly, switching hands when Maggie tried to grab it.

“50!”

“Come one Pete, she’s done reading it, let Maggie see the ticket.”

Pete shook his head, but Bill was too quick and tore off the top half. Bill whistled.

“Hey! Give it back!” Pete called out.

“No, give it here!”

“Why should I? I sold it here, in my store.”

“I paid for it!” Maggie retorted, lunging again.

George, a regular fisherman came in to buy some bait. The wind followed him in. Three sets of eyes widened as they followed the path of the ticket fragments out the door.

“Hi George! Excuse me.” Pete shoved past him as he ran outside.

“Hey George. See you around.” Maggie followed on Pete’s heels.

Bill merely tipped his hat as he brushed passed him and followed in their wake.

George stared at the now empty doorway. Then he glanced at the counter, also empty. His head tipped up, to each of the ceiling’s four corners, empty again. He hummed a little tune to himself as he crept toward the counter. Swinging to his right, George made sure the entire store stood empty. As he swung to his left, he dipped down beneath the counter. Pulling out his favorite brand of bait, George whistled as he left the store. Surely Bill wouldn’t miss one jar, right?

He came down the aisle and stopped at the appropriate row. Pausing, the man took his pillow and stashed it up above in the nearest compartment and closed the hatch securely. Then he sat down, taking deep breaths as he flipped through the Skymall magazine, his eyes only glancing at each ad for two seconds. Setting the catalog aside, he ran his hand through his hair, impatiently waiting for the plan to take off.

Other passengers milled about and took their own seats. He wondered if anyone would be sitting between him and the window. In the worst possible scenario he imagined, he’d get stuck between two large chatty passengers who wouldn’t allow him a moment to think. As he waited, he stared at the images in the sky mall magazine until the colors congealed like those in an old man’s tattoo.

He’d been training for this day for a couple years.

“Excuse me sir.” She stood less than a foot away, wearing a blouse and a loose skirt. “I have the window seat.”

Nodding, he set his neglected magazine aside and stood up to allow her through. He dropped into his seat faster than a two-ton bomb and she floated down to hers a second later.

“I’m Callie.” She volunteered, watching him as he picked up the catalog again.

He nodded in reply, before glancing back through his catalog. Her persistent gaze attempted to burn holes in the paper.

“And what’s yours?”

After a little hesitation, he replied “Ali.”

“Oo, like the boxer?” She leaned forward over the empty seat between them.

“Yeah, like the boxer.” He smiled at the right corner of his mouth.

The flight attendants went through the demonstration, holding up oxygen masks for all the passengers to see. Ali looked around him to see if anyone paid attention; nobody seemed to. He wondered if masks were all that useful in certain situations. Certainly they wouldn’t work if the passengers had died on impact, definitely not if they burned alive. If the plane sank in the water, the masks would only serve to keep passengers alive for so long.

Soon enough the plane interrupted Ali’s thought process with the pull of takeoff. He stared at the no-smoking light as he counted the hours and minutes. Ali only had to wait two hours and—

“I’m from San Diego. You?”

He held back a sigh, and instead he smirked. “Where do you think?”

Callie pressed her lips together, narrowing her eyes as she ran through her bank of information. (Near as Ali could tell, she hadn’t deposited much in her account.) “You have an accent, that’s for sure.”

“So do you. It’s just different.” He laughed, managing to keep the nerves out of his voice.

“Mm, yeah, I guess so. Mm…..Dubai?”

Ali’s eye twitched. “You’re too kind.” He hated that dump of a city.

“One of those Stan countries?”

“Close enough. Saudi Arabia, actually.”

“Oh, neat!” She continued to chatter away, but Ali heard little of what Callie said.

He dug into his backpack, feeling each and every package he had inside. As required by airport security, each and every bottle had less than three ounces of liquid inside. They didn’t seem to care how many bottles he packed with him, however, and so he packed as many as he could in the quart-sized Ziploc back. Ali rehearsed in his mind the exact sequence and recipe that required such ingredients. Like his fellow trainees, he knew he’d have a hard time finding them in a supermarket. If Ali messed up the order he might destroy his foot, or burn a whole through the bottom of his backpack; he wanted to avoid both scenarios.

Callie still hadn’t stopped talking. “Me and my brother used to play soccer all the time before he died. He always dreamed of playing in the World Cup.”

“Really? So did my brother. But he decided to help my dad with his souvenir stand instead.”

“What souvenirs did you sell?”

“T-shirts, key chains, and postcards. And local candy.” Ali checked his watch, swallowing hard. He needed to focus. He needed to stop talking to a San Diego girl named Callie. He needed to act, but she was nice to talk to. He couldn’t silence her just yet.

Note: Yes, I know this contains references to a certain filmed owned by a mouse with big, round ears. Tell him he can consider it free advertising, like he needs any. The film you ask? Pirates of the Caribbean, of course.

All your life you did as

your pain, your family, your friends

commanded you, the sickness too.

Death regularly visited

your bedside like an unrepentant

suitor, but you turned him away

with your pistol.

He left in a longboat,

but he always turned his head back

with a smirk. He knew.

One day he’d come back for the heart you took

and kept safe inside your chest.

He knew you’d rather stab the heart than give it back;

he knew you needed it more, but he wanted the heart.

That day he sent a monster to do his bidding,

a poison that slowly killed you from the inside out,

until it oozed out your pores and swelled

the whites in your eyes.

Then you knew.

You knew it was time to evacuate your torn and battered ship,

and say your goodbyes.

I watched you face that beastie with tears in both our eyes,

but you laid there proud and courageous as you always had,

this time with a sword in hand instead of a pistol.

Others have left this world not knowing the face of Death,

because they were too afraid to turn their head,

but you did.

I still miss you, and I think I will until

I board the Flying Dutchman myself,

but know this,

know this:

I would sail past the end of the earth and end of the seas,

if I could bring you back.

I know it would be for naught,

for I know you’ve found your peace.

Dear Friends and Family,

We’d like to invite you to our wedding, but first we’d like to invite you to help pay for it. We don’t want your money, but we’d like your pop cans. You see, we’d like to turn in about 400,000 pop cans by July so we can pay for the ceremony. Hopefully we’ll see you on the 31st!

The future Geyers.

http://weddingcans.com./

PS: It’s green!

Though she’s not my husband, nor even my lover,

she’s an heir to a special part of my heart.

I know she’s alive,

but the distance that separates us is an ocean,

and it takes far too long to sail home.

My suitors are not but worries, anxieties, fears

that visit me every morning and every evening.

I know the moment she comes home they’ll flee

like dust in the four winds.

I fear she faces many trials and monsters harm in women’s clothing,

and that she will come home one day,

but I want her home today.

The gun cocked as he raised it toward her. “Give me your money.” His eyes stared at her own eyes firmly, holding an empty sack in his hands.

The room stood empty, everyone else had fled the moment the gun came out. Unfortunately, the barista had to earn her wages, and so she stayed. “No.” She drummed one set of fingers on the counter, while she hid the other set from view.

“Don’t make me shoot.” His eyes narrowed, as sweat began to trickle down his left temple.

“Don’t make me.” Her hidden hand pulled out her own gun, which she used to mirror his actions.

His gun thudded to the floor as his feet swept through the door as fast as they could take him.

She set down the gun and picked up the phone, dialing the police. With a unshaken voice she told the dispatcher the details of her latest adventure. “You might want to arrest this guy before I have to use my Christmas present on him. I’d hate to have to waste this ammo.”